All Things Real and True
by xLittle Black Star
Summary: They tell you she's a killer. They tell you she must be stopped any way possible. This doesn't sound like the truth, but honestly, you have no idea what to believe anymore. Oneshot on the hijacking, Peeta centric. R&R.


**Note: **So I wrote this a really long time ago. I'm re-posting it. It's kinda a long story. So I still don't love it but it's a lot better than it was. Review?

* * *

The fist time, it's hard to see.

Your vision comes in and out of focus, and you're almost happy about it because you don't want to see what's on the screen in front of you, because whatever they want you to be watching is bound to be horrifying.

You have a few semi-coherent thoughts, but the harder you try to think the more confusing and disoriented everything becomes, until all you can do is curl up and wish your way out of here.

You don't even know where _here _is. You could be anywhere. Any place. And it wouldn't even matter because you're trapped, and screamingfighting_begging _prayinghoping_wishing _aren't going to help you.

An aching soreness has settled over your joints, and you welcome it, because it's better than the raw and open pain that throbs and pounds and _burns_. You don't remember the last time you had any kind of food or drink, but you realize it doesn't even matter because you're wasting away here anyway and everything _hurts _and you feel so _alone.__  
_

Someone grabs your jaw in a meaty hand and jerks your neck to look back up at the screen. You see bits and pieces; familiar glimmers you're almost sure you've seen before.

_Almost _sure.

You don't really remember. Your mind can't focus because everything's fuzzy and out of place and you only end up getting more and more confused, unable to process the things they are showing you, because it didn't happen this way, it _didn't._

Not real. Not real not real not real.

You hear a man's voice. A voice that you have heard oh, so many times. Too many times, oh, too many times. But you still can't place who the voice belongs to or why they're speaking, so you just close your eyes and let yourself _breathe._

_Unsuccessful. Take him away, _the man says, sounding frighteningly disappointed.

And take you, they do.

You think, through the thick haze over your senses, that you are happy to be taken away from here_. _There's something sinister in this room that you don't want to be around.

* * *

The... fourth time (you've been doing your best to keep a count, but it's a difficult task), it's better and worse.

The world is still blurry and and too loud and bright and vicious, but the images at least make sense, a sick sort of sense.

Blood. Murder. Death. And more blood. Oh, so much blood.

She has caused most of it. _She. _Her. The Girl on Fire, the Mockingjay. They never mention her name and they never answer your questions about her, and the part of you that's still sane has the sense to wonder why all information about her is under lock and key. But your thoughts never make it very far before they're ripped and chased out of your head.

They're even controlling your brain at this point, and you know you don't want them in your head and your instincts tell you to _fight it, _but they're so much stronger than you are and there's just so _many _of them and you're not even sure what you're supposed to be fighting against anymore.

Somewhere, somehow, your mind registers that they are only showing one side of the story. The side that makes her look bad, the side that's twisted and stretched and _wrong_.

Not real not real_ not real._ Except maybe it is. You have no way of knowing anymore, because you can't remember anything on your own and it seems that the screen is playing your memories for you.

You don't think they're yours. They don't _seem _like your memories, but you think they could be, if you let them. And it would be so much easier just to let them.

A cruel, twisted smile is now painted on the man's lips. _Yes, only a matter of time now. We have almost achieved success._

The man speaks truth; you believe. A frightening truth. But you have long since given up on searching for the truth._  
_

* * *

You've seen so much.

This room is your dwelling place, where you live, and where, surely, you will die. The man, whoever he is, seems to be speaking truth.

What was once so clear to you is now morphed and mangled in a cruel and unrecognizable way, leaving you grasping for something you cannot reach.

Truth.

What even _is_ truth? Maybe it's all just relative, maybe it depends on what each person thinks and what each person sees.

_Just a little longer now, _the man says. He seems to be the only one who you can listen to anymore, even though you don't want to believe the things he tells you because the world isn't that dark, the world _can't _be that dark and menacing. But you don't remember seeing the world and the man tells you he knows all about the world, so you take his word over your own because he must be right, he has to be right.

Those you trusted were wrong; it is their fault you are here. You never should have listened to them.

They are liars. They wanted only to kill you. They are in support of the Girl on Fire. They are _all _bad.

Or... you _think _so. Perhaps you were on their side too?

But you don't think you were a killer. Perhaps you are wrong.

* * *

You see her. You see her, and she confuses you.

You watch her laugh manically and stab another person, you see her come running after you, sprinting and shrieking like a crazed animal. You watch as she mangles a poor little girl's body, and you watch how she feeds a boy to the mutts and cackles as they rip him apart. You see her, and she scares you.

But there are some things that don't make sense, that don't seem to add up, because inside your head something burns that this is not her, that it's _not real._

She's a killer, though, she must be a killer. She's a mutt and a masochistic, savage, lunatic. Or, so the man tells you. So the screens tell you.

And how could they be wrong? You watched it with your own eyes. You know you did, you must have. So you ignore the burning feeling and you listen as the man tells you what you must do.

_Success. We have achieved success. Let the rebels take him._


End file.
